April 19, 2013

I've wanted to write this post for a while. I didn't know
quite how to go about broaching it, and anyone who follows me on my personal
Facebook account or Twitter, knows that I've made my feelings clear about how
freelancers—writers, artists, musicians, or whichever other discipline—are treated by
those seeking their services.

Since I’m navigating life as a struggling writer, I’m only
offering the perspective of one. Despite what you've seen on Sex and The City, life
as a freelance writer isn't replete with luxury shoe shopping, cosmopolitan cocktails (hate
those, but there is copious red wine swilling though), or afternoons spent
typing away in a spacious NYC apartment, clothed in boho chic designer duds. I'm sad to report that Carrie Bradshaw has led some of you hopefuls astray.

Unless a writer pens the type of
controversial work that guarantees site hits and causes popular digital (or print) magazine editors to produce créme de la leche in their undies, and (thanks to a trust fund) has the luxury of writing about fumbling through a well orchestrated hot-mess life of privilege, sex, drugs,
narcissism, rock & roll, and manages to reap the rewards of a lucrative book deal advance from a well-known publisher, it’s not easy.